


We Have Got to Stop Meeting Like This

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Liberties taken with the Bible, M/M, Minoans, Multi, Other, lost of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 03:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: Disasters can be natural or man-made.Or just feelings.





	1. Minoan society was a tits out kind of place

1546BC – Thera

“Well shit,” Said Crawley. She had liked Thera, it was wonderfully warm, the people had known how to have a good time. So of course, it had to go, no we can’t let Crawley have a good time, can we?

The Volcano at the centre of the island sputtered again and sick orange pyroclastic flow poured down its sides. Crawley should have gone, she really should. But she didn’t, for the same reason people stare at a car accident for far longer than they ought to. Houses that had been inhabited by people she knew had been reduced to rubble with the first fall of pumice and ash from the sky. They thought they had angered the gods. And maybe they had, but Crawley couldn’t think what was so bad about the way they had lived, then again she didn’t think there was anything wrong with asking questions either.

It had taken a long time for the screaming to stop. She’d tried to get a few of the people onto boats, maybe, just maybe they’d get away fast enough and find some way to preserve their culture . . . otherwise. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know otherwise. But someone had to bear witness. Someone had to know they had existed and mourn the loss of them.

As the eruption ended, it was as though the Earth itself gave a deep shudder. In fear and sadness over what it had just witnessed. Crawley flew carefully down to where the city she had been living in until several days ago had been. It had been completely buried by the first clouds of ash. It was like it had never been there at all. She wondered where she would go next, or he, she hadn’t decided. Being a ‘woman’ (whatever that meant) had been easier here, one of the rare matriarchal societies. But wherever she went next may require something different. She didn’t really mind, but she had been enjoying playing at being a Minoan woman, with pearls in her hair, and special respect for her eyes (serpents were sacred to their chthonic goddess). Not to mention the elegant flowing dresses that had bared their breasts, after all, Minoan society was a tits out kind of place.

Despite the desolate landscape being a crappy place for spying, Crawley couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She walked over to where she had once seen an incredible display of bull-leaping, a test of agility and strength. In the ash on the ground she could see a single saffron flower, vibrant purple against the grey that permeated everywhere else. How could it have grown here? She wasn’t stupid enough to believe it had somehow survived. The flower had a familiar feel to it, it reminded her of apricots and Eden and missing swords. Ah.

“Aziraphale? I know you’re out there,” She said, loud enough to disturb the dismal silence that had permeated the once-lively island.

Some people believe that everything happens for a reason. Angels are definitely supposed to believe that; that everything happens as a part of Her divine plan. But Aziraphale was, in this moment, not entirely convinced. The Minoans had done nothing wrong except build their home right near an active volcano. But surely, She had never meant to hurt them, not like this.

Aziraphale glided down from where he had been watching above the clouds, they still hung low and deadly, ready to rain down more ash and stone as soon as they felt ready.

There were a lot of things Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, wanted to say to Crawley. Things like ‘So this is where you’ve been since the Tabernacle?’ and ‘I’m sorry this happened’ but he didn’t, he knew better. In times of crisis it wasn’t his job to be sorry or to keep track of demons for any reason other than thwarting or smiting them.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” Aziraphale began, in his best thoughtful angel voice, “the cycle of life and death. Volcanic soil grown the best food but then,” he made a gesture that he hoped looked wise, “this is the cost of it.”

He went to look at Crawley to gauge her reaction but got stuck somewhere along the way due to the fashion choices she had made. If he had made it to her face, he would have realised she didn’t want to hear his angelic bullshit. She tugged on her skirt and removed a brooch which she held out at Aziraphale, pointy end first, and indicated for him to take it.

“I know plenty about the cycle of life and death, Aziraphale. That’s from Egypt. You can keep it, if you’re allowed,” she said haughtily despite her throat feeling rather tight at the moment, her black wings (unencumbered by a dress that barely covered her torso) spread out and she flew away. She was too sad, too tired, and too angry at everything to deal with angels today, even her favourite angel, if he was going to act like that anyway.

Aziraphale looked down at the brooch she had left him with, it depicted an ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail. Certainly a fitting brooch for Crawley, the serpent of Eden. It was also, if he wasn’t mistaken, a symbol of life, death, and rebirth. What had been the purpose of her giving it to him? The heavy dark brooch was definitely not his aesthetic. Perhaps it meant something. He was not so inept at reading people that he couldn’t tell she was upset. Maybe more upset with him than at the volcano.

But why should he care? He was an angel, he had no reason to make demons feel better, in fact it was a good thing when they were sad or upset. But still, some part of him wondered if that had to apply to Crawley. And a deeper part of him still made a note to never try to use angelic wisdom to cheer Crawley up ever again, not because Aziraphale shouldn’t be cheering Crawley up in the first place, but because it didn’t work.


	2. Is She Sick of Humans?

1231BC Mashkan-shapir, Mesopotamia

Crawley bent and examined the soil around him, it was covered in a dusting of white, but it didn’t snow here, not ever. He tapped the surface lightly and cracks sprung from his finger. He examined the dust on his finger and licked it. Had anyone been around to see him, they might have remarked on the fact that the tongue was forked, and certainly much longer than a tongue ought to be. But nobody saw, there were very few people left to see. After all, what were they supposed to eat when all their fields were covered in salt?

Of course, Crawley thought, You’d give them a river so they could irrigate their fields, but You’d have to make sure that the river would also destroy them. You just love having someone’s salvation also be their downfall, don’t You? He glared at the sky as if he could burn a hole in it with his hatred. The blazing sun bared down on him in mocking silence. It was always silence.

“Crawley?” Oh great, just what he needed.

“What?” He said without turning around. He knew who the source of the voice was, there was no need to confirm it.

“I -erm, I was just wondering where all the salt came from. Do you happen to know?” Aziraphale asked from behind him.

Even when he wanted to hate Aziraphale, even when all he could see were Her tests and the idiots that played along with them, he couldn’t stop himself from liking him. Demons, after all, are not known for their emotional regulation or self-control. Crawley turned around.

“Of course I know what’s bloody ha-“ Crawley cut himself off, like a sail with the wind taken from it. Aziraphale was looking at him so earnestly, his white kaunake trailing in the salty earth, the salt sticking to the hem. His mantle, covered in golden trim, had little feathers on it arranged to look like his wings. Crawley collected his thoughts, which were scattered and on their way to the Tigris river and tried again.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “they were using water from the river, the water evaporated over time, leaving the salt behind here.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale eloquently. It had been nearly 300 years since they had last seen one another, and they had not parted on good terms. Had everything festered into hatred over the last 300 years? Or had it fizzled out?

The truth that Aziraphale was failing to grasp here is that those are not the only two options, they are extreme points on a spectrum of how time and anger relate to one another. Crawley was still exactly as angry as he was at Thera, no more, no less. And he had every right to be, at least, that was how Crawley saw it.

“So,” Crawley said, his voice acerbic, “Is She just sick of humans or is this more ineffability?”

“I’m not sure ineffability is a word,” Aziraphale said to buy himself some time. It didn’t work, Crawley just raised an eyebrow. “She is working on teaching humans about consequences.”

“How is that supposed to teach them anything? The consequences showed up generations later.”

Aziraphale hummed in a way that made it clear to both of them that he had no idea what to say. For some reason, this made the acidity in Crawley’s voice move closer to the centre of the pH scale.

“It’s alright,” he said, looking away from Aziraphale, “I already know you don’t have all the answers. I’m just taking it out on you because I don’t get it.” That last sentence seemed to be directed more at himself than Aziraphale.

“You can take it out on me, if it helps,” Aziraphale said, before immediately realising what a terrible idea that was. Did he want to go up in a puff of hellfire? Oh God, Crawley was staring at him again. “Wh-what I mean to say i-is that’s what this angels and demons things is supposed to be about, you know? You can be angry and I’ll be here to be godly . . . or something.”

Crawley almost burst out laughing at that. This was the angel he had met in Eden, maybe the only angel who made good on their promise to Her to value life.

“Alright,” he said, still supressing his laughter, “just let me know when you get sick of me.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” Despite himself, Aziraphale found himself smiling back.

What neither of them knew, in fact nobody knew because it had never happened before, was that, if given enough time, rain, and just a pinch of good luck, places like Mashkan-shapir could, in fact, recover from soil salinity due to irrigation. Humans might be very, very good at causing problems, but the Earth can usually fix them if given enough time. In fact, by 592 AD, the region saw its first successful crop grow there. Of course, that crop was destroyed in 636 AD in the Battle of al-Qādisiyah, but hey, humans have never claimed to be perfect.


	3. A bit of angelic help

1006 BC the Valley of Elah

Aziraphale watched the humans with some trepidation, it was as though they were determined to doom themselves. For the last – how long had it been? – 39 days, one Israelite after another had volunteered to fight the Nephilim, Goliath, now the Israelites were 39 men shorter than they had been at the beginning of all of this, and the Philistines, the people of Goliath’s human parent, were as many in number as they had always been.

Was it worth Aziraphale’s intervention? He wasn’t sure. He had been tasked by Gabriel to watch over Her chosen people. Was this over-stepping his bounds? He had no idea who Goliath’s holy parent was. Was it worth risking a fellow angel’s hatred? Was this some kind of test?

While Aziraphale pondered all this, Goliath tore the most recent Israelite to face him limb from limb. Further description is not necessary, any of those who were present on that day would happily have the memory scrubbed clean from their minds. Suffice to say that yes, it was brutal, yes, he was strong enough to do so, and no, more detail is not required.

Aziraphale heard a loud exhale to his right, “Yikes.” He turned around and, of course, because his day hadn’t been difficult enough already.

“Yikes indeed,” Aziraphale responded, turning to see exactly who he expected. Crawley, wrapped in a black kethoneth, the grey trim the only sign of where the coat ended and his black tunic began.

“So,” Crawley said, giving Aziraphale the smirk that meant he was about to try and wind him up, “this Goliath, he isn’t yours, is he?”

Aziraphale was gobsmacked, he made a noise like the one a fish would make when it was brought out of the water for the first time, if fish could make such a noise. It took him several moments to remember that he was in fact, in human corporation and not that of a talking fish. “Heavens no!” He said, rather horrified.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your addereth in a twist,” Crawley said, not even bothering to hide his enjoyment of Aziraphale’s indignance. “I was only asking because everyone says you’ve been here for so long; I was wondering what was making you stay.”

“I am here to watch over Her chosen people. That should be obvious.” Despite what Crawley would say if he were the one recounting this day, Aziraphale did not huff. Angels do not huff, they have quiet, holy indignance.

“And how’s that going for you?” Crawley asked, but before Aziraphale had a chance to respond, Goliath’s voice rose over the crowd.

“And who will be next to challenge me in single combat?”

Nobody dared to move or speak. The way the crowd of Israelites froze, it was as if they’d been turned to statues. Both Aziraphale and Crawley could feel it, the thoughts of the crowd swirled into one, “not me!” they all thought, so tired and afraid.

Just when it looked like they were going to have to concede defeat, a voice rang out. “I do!”

Everyone searched for the owner of the voice, and it was Crawley who breathed “No,” when he was identified.

A boy. A child. He was far too young to fight, even younger to die. When Crawley saw him, he was not thinking of orders from Hell, nor the worth of this boy’s soul, and when he reached out to see if there was any way he could tempt him to back down, and found nothing, it was not with the anger of a demon denied a soul that his eyes began to sting with sorrow. It was with the belief that if anyone should be spared Her games, it was children.

Aziraphale could see it in Crawley’s posture, he remembered ‘You can’t kill the kids,’ and although the Ark was so long ago, it was the same was Crawley had looked then. A demon torn by his own nature and his own sense of right and wrong. Aziraphale had been ordered last time, not to intervene. He had no such orders this time.

After the child had accepted the challenge, Aziraphale found the boy by the HaElah stream, he did not look afraid, but he gazed at the stream with purpose.

“What is your name, child?” Aziraphale asked, sitting down beside him.

“David,” said the child, “but my family calls me Elhanan.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale, “have they told you that Elhanan means ‘gift from God’?”

“They haven’t,” David said.

The two of them sat in silence, David continued to stare at the stream. Once Aziraphale had had his fill of silence he said, “What are you searching for, David?”

I’m looking for rocks,” David said. Aziraphale was confused, there were plenty of rocks just about everywhere. David laughed at the expression of Aziraphale’s face.

“I’m looking for rocks for my sling.” He held up the sling for Aziraphale to see. “Smooth river ricks are the best; I need them to be about this big.” He held a fist to indicate the size.

Miraculously, Aziraphale found five stones where David could have sworn he had already looked. Aziraphale tapped each stone lightly before handing it over. If David thought this was odd, he didn’t say anything.

Crawley was among the first to arrive back at the valley, long before dawn. He, like many of the humans, couldn’t sleep. There was no peace in oblivion when you knew what you had to wake up to. He sat among them and made a point of talking to them. He had arrived 39 days into all of this, just checking in on the Middle East, after a brief stint in Mycenae. He hadn’t actually meant to find anything.

Say what you will about demons, they are excellent listeners. After all, how are they supposed to tempt people if they don’t know what they want. In the interest of fairness, some angels make good listeners as well, but they have to be able to hear you over their holy fanfare. One of the few angels with a talent for listening (and a healthy distaste for celestial fanfare) was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale entered the encampment of people siting vigil for David before he had even died and had no trouble finding Crawley, well, he found Crawley at the centre of the trouble anyway.

“I really just want to go home,” said a woman to Crawley who was nodding sagely.

Aziraphale had to put a stop to this, he was an angel, it was his duty to thwart demonic plans.

“So sorry, Miriam,” he said, cutting her off mid-tirade, “but I really must borrow this young fellow, so sorry dears.”

Crawley allowed himself to be dragged away, tossing Aziraphale awry smile he said, “You caught me, I was using my demonic wiles to listen to people,”

“I’m sure there are plenty of ways to sew dissent, but I actually do want to tell you something,” Aziraphale said.

Crawley hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“The young boy, his name is David, and I might have, -erm-“ Aziraphale began but was cut-off by Crawley.

“-Given him a bit of angelic help?” The question mark on the end of that statement was more for show than anything else, Crawley knew what Aziraphale was saying, but Aziraphale took it as a question anyway.

“Well, yes.”

“So?” Crawley asked, “What’s going to happen? Is a bolt of lightning going to come down from the sky and smite the Nephilim?”

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale said, it would not do to piss off his co-workers like that, “the rocks in David’s sling. They’re going to hit Goliath on the weakest point of his skull.” Aziraphale tapped Crawley’s temple lightly, surprising them both. They each took a step away from the other before deciding to pretend nothing had happened.

“It should break, I gave it a little boost of strength too,” Aziraphale continued, most definitely not blushing. “It ought to stop him.”

Crawley noted two things from this conversation, well three, but only two he was willing to accept: The first was that Aziraphale was going to kill a Nephilim, an angel’s child; the second, Aziraphale was unwilling to use the word ‘kill’.

Neither of them had any time to process any of that, though. Because David marched out to meet Goliath and everything went as Aziraphale had said. Nobody could believe it, even Aziraphale had been afraid his plan might fail. As he processed his surprise, he turned to his side to see where Crawley had gone, but the demon was nowhere to be seen.


	4. We ought to say goodbye

925BC the border between Israel and Judah

Aziraphale was thinking about the beginning. Not the beginning as in the garden of Eden and the snake-Crawley, but the beginning as in “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God and the Word was with God”. Everything that was or ever would be had some of Her essence, the Light or Spirit that tied things together in a beautiful bow made of Love. You see, Aziraphale was beginning to have _thoughts_ on the subject. _Thoughts_ that didn’t merely toe the line of things that were supposed to be left unsaid but jumped over the line and made rude faces from the other side.

The problem with _thoughts_ was that they were impossible to unthink, he could push them down to the darkest depths of his conscious mind and pretend they didn’t exist, but like a corn kernel over an open flame, they would pop up with next to no notice and send him reeling. So Aziraphale had decided that the beginning was all they were going to get, these thoughts would not develop a middle, nor an end. And hopefully, hopefully, that would be enough to keep them gone, or at least away.

Part of the inspiration for his _thoughts_ had been the sight that was unfurling before him. The Israelites were dividing themselves. The promised land was broken and Aziraphale didn’t have a clue as to how to return it’s original state. It had not been so long since the boy, David, had been crowned king, in fact it had only taken two generations for the celebration to wear off and for the kingdom to be split in twain.

Rehoboam was not the leader his grandfather had been, it was true. But he still maintained a dignified presence beside Jeroboam, the new king of Israel, the northern part of it anyway. Rehoboam was king of Judah and Jerusalem, which Gabriel had said was a most important place, but this was not what Aziraphale had hoped for, or even expected.

Never one to leave a distressed angel to their peace, especially when that angel was as interesting as Aziraphale, Crawley approached, his gait more like a slither than a walk. “So, chosen people to live in peace and harmony, how’s that working out?”

“You know perfectly well how it’s working out!” Aziraphale said, and if someone were to say he spoke in the tome of a stroppy child they would be wrong but a little too on the money for Aziraphale’s liking.

“Bit tetchy today, are we?” Crawley asked.

“Oh, go tempt someone, I don’t have time for you – for this – right now!” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself and tried to push his mind beyond even angelic limits, anything to find some way to make everything stop feeling like the world was crumbling at his fingertips.

Well, this was definitely more assertive that Crawley was used to from Aziraphale. He wanted to stay, just to see what was going to happen and definitely not because Aziraphale was clearly upset. Why would a demon care if an angel was sad? He should probably be celebrating.

“Date?” Crawley asked Aziraphale, who was still hugging himself like he might somehow physically hold himself together despite his mental state.

“I’m sorry what?!” said Aziraphale, deeply confused.

Crawley exhaled a soft laugh and held out a bag of dates. Aziraphale paused, searching Crawley’s face for hints that this was some kind of infernal trap.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching into the bag.

“I did look for apricots,” Crawley said conversationally, “but I couldn’t find any.”

“They aren’t quite in season yet,” Aziraphale said, hoping there wasn’t any date left in his mouth as he spoke before he remembered that demons (and most angels for that matter) felt no real need to eat. “Why did you . . .” he began to ask.

“Oh, erm-“ Crawley began articulately, “Gluttony!” He said, trying to make it clear that he hadn’t only just thought of it, “easy sin to tempt, as you said, I should be off tempting people.”

“Oh, right, well I suppose I should be blessing people as well,” Aziraphale said, finding the normalcy of this conversation easier to deal with.

“Well, since we’re both on the clock-“ Crawley began.

“I suppose we ought to say goodbye,” Aziraphale said, cutting off whatever Crawley was going to say.

“I suppose so,” Crawley said, tossing Aziraphale a wicked half-smile, “Goodbye Aziraphale.”

“Goodbye Crawley,” Aziraphale replied, with no way of knowing if Crawley heard him or not as Crawley had disappeared into the crowd without a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The apricots are a reference to the previous story To take root and to leave, Chapter 3: you cut it a bit fine there, didn’t you?


	5. A weak excuse

872BC Memphis

Crawley watched Orsokon II, the new Pharaoh of Egypt pace back and forth on the sandstone floor, his eyes always being drawn to his view of the city.

“You say,” Orsokon II began, “that the Chiefs of the West called me a pathetic mosquito draining the legacy of my ancestors?”

“You got it,” said Crawley, who was rather enjoying this new Pharaoh, it was almost too easy to goad him into doing just about anything.

“That’s it!” The Pharaoh exclaimed; he snapped his fingers at a servant “show me the letter from Ahab of Israel again.”

The servant ran over and Crawley read over his shoulder. An alliance? With Israel? Humans had such short memories. Ahab scribbled a response and sent a soldier on his way.

“I wonder what the Chiefs of the West will say after I have beaten back the Assyrians!” He said, still delightfully pompous.

The messenger returned with a party from King Ahab towards the end of the season Akhet, the monsoons had passed, and the Nile had maintained a consistent level for some weeks now. The transit of the star Sirius indicated that it would soon be time to ready their fields for the season of growth, Peret.

As the party approached the palace Crawley was sensed an angelic presence. Even if pressed, Crawley couldn’t put his finger on exactly what an angelic presence felt like. He’d probably say something along the lines of “you know when water is just too hot? Like, it should be warm and comforting but by one degree it isn’t.” But that still couldn’t quite capture the feeling he was trying to describe. He was ready to take on his serpent form when he caught a glimpse of the angel in question. It was Aziraphale. He sighed in relief but caught it halfway and stopped the sigh before it could get any further. Demons should never be happy to see angels, he reminded himself.

Still, there was no harm in having a little fun, if he was bothering an angel, he could even call it work. He decided not to acknowledge Aziraphale, not until Aziraphale spoke to him. It could be funny ‘Oh Aziraphale I didn’t notice you there you know I’ve just been so busy, I haven’t had time to watch you from behind palace walls or anything like that, don’t be ridiculous Aziraphale!’

Three days into the stay of King Ahab’s diplomatic party and Crawley was getting very tired of his game. Aziraphale took his role as diplomat very seriously, and it was looking like an alliance between Israel and Egypt was a certainty. But Crawley was bored. He wanted to be noticed. Of course, he spent plenty of time with the Pharaoh, but not while Aziraphale was around. Something about it felt wrong, like two worlds he didn’t want to interact were colliding.

It was, of course, totally fine that Aziraphale hadn’t notice him. Utterly not an issue. Well, it didn’t exactly reflect well on Aziraphale’s abilities as an angel. Wasn’t he supposed to be able to sense demons? He was doing a pretty terrible job of being an angel if he didn’t notice Crawley’s presence at all. That was what it was, professional concern about Aziraphale’s capabilities. Nothing else. Nothing else at all. Well . . .

No. Crawley squashed that thought down like popping a balloon (which hadn’t been invented yet, but in some parts of the world people were figuring out how to inflate animal bladders to get a similar effect). He wasn’t going down that road. Warm, mushy feelings didn’t survive Falling and if they did, they definitely wouldn’t survive Hell. Aziraphale was just interesting, nothing more, nothing less.

Crawley spent the fourth day since the arrival of Aziraphale nursing his pride by the Nile. The Monsoons had long since ended but the weather wasn’t warm yet, not that bone-deep warmth that seemed to seep into Crawley’s skin like a blanket he could take with him wherever he went. Like the warmth he could remember from Before.

He shook his head, as if it would part the fog of thoughts that constantly followed him. The Nile was always so beautiful, crocodiles and perch swimming up its waterways, taking advantage of the river being so full. He stuck his hand in, a temptation for the brave crocodile, he smirked to himself. The sun was setting, the Egyptians believed this was when their sun-god, Ra did battle with their ancient serpent-god of chaos. Serpents always seemed to get the raw end of these things, he wondered if that was punishment from Her.

“Careful sir, you could be bitten by a crocodile!” a young child had approached him, well-dressed enough to belong to a scribe or priest.

“Don’t worry,” Crawley said back, “the crocodiles know better than to mess with me.” He laughed

The kid laughed too, “Ok sir, but make sure you go to the temple of Thoth when you get hurt. They fixed my arm, see!” The child held up an arm that had been crudely cut open and stitched together, then smothered in honey. The priests of Thoth were smart, they had realised honey was anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial as well as a delicious snack. Still, the child’s arm wasn’t healing quickly enough, all it would take would be for them to forget the honey one morning and. . . Crawley cut off that train of thought.

“Can I see?” he asked, and the child moved closer, they couldn’t have been more than ten years old. He moved his hand over it, a curse technically, but a curse on the bacteria that threatened the wound, it wouldn’t survive to harm the child. “It’s an impressive wound,” he said, the child grinned, “how did you do it?”

“I was playing with spinning tops and I wanted to see if I could go faster than the top,” they said, “so I spun really, really fast and I fell over.”

Crawley was not so much a monster that he couldn’t supress his laugh. He waved the child off and turned back towards the Nile, dipping his feet in as he sat down. The sky was vibrant purple and there was a stillness in the air, like the world was taking a breath in, like it was pausing for just a moment.

“You healed the child.”

“For Satan’s sake! You scared the shit out of me,” Crawley said, looking up at Aziraphale.

“My apologies,” said Aziraphale, not looking remotely apologetic.

This time the silence was awkward and palpable, like trying to do a dance underwater. Crawley stared at Aziraphale, feeling like he had to say something, some way to make what he had just done evil. And Aziraphale was looking for the same thing, a reason to believe Crawley was a bad as everyone said he was. He didn’t look like the demon responsible for the original sin here, with his legs dipped into the river, a faraway look in his eyes, and the kindness to help a child.

“Just trying to make sure there are more worshippers of Thoth,” Crawley said, “Can’t let your lot have everyone.” It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

Crawley felt as though he ought to offer Aziraphale a seat beside him, or that he ought to stand up, so they were both at the same height. But if he did, that’d be allowing himself to be moved by an angel. He stayed put. After all, that was how they were supposed to be, angels up high, demons down low.

It was at that moment, that Crawley felt the level of the river rise. That in itself was normal, it was the end of Akhet, the Nile rose and fell all the time at this time of year. But it left him with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I’m afraid I must return to the Pharaoh, he’s expecting me.” Crawley stood up.

“Of course, sorry to have held you up,” Aziraphale said, so kindly that Crawley didn’t know what to say to him.

In the Pharaoh’s chambers, Crawley felt cold despite the fires blazing in their braziers. It was a chill that permeated the air and made his snake instincts want to brumate, like his heart was slowing down.

The first sign that anything was wrong came on the morning of the fifth day since Aziraphale had arrived. It was easy to see from the palace: the Nile was flooding. Well, the Nile flooded all the time, that was how the cycle of the seasons: Akhet, Peret, and Shemu worked. But this, this was much further than it was supposed to go, people’s houses were falling apart, mudbrick and sandstone alike were being claimed by the merciless river.

Crawley’s only thought since he had seen it from the Pharaoh’s rooms had been to find Aziraphale.

He was easy enough to find, fair hair and pale skin stood out in Egypt (It was after all, a nation in Africa, no matter how certain films have portrayed it). He was sitting at the long table in the palace eating stuffed dates. Crawley wondered if he remembered their last meeting.

“Aziraphale,” he hissed siting down next to him, and definitely shoving the person on his other side. Why should he care? He was a demon for Hell’s sake.

“Crawley,” Aziraphale said, in a tone that said, ‘I don’t approve of your behaviour’.

“The Nile, is it your lot again?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s flooding- It’s flooding worse than normal. Are, you know, your people behind it?”

“Not at all, I had assumed it was, your lot, as it were.”

“It was your lot last time. Moses, the Ark, very on brand for your lot.” Crawley wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, Aziraphale or himself.

“It’s all a part of Her inef-“

“Maybe if She stopped trying to be so bloody ineffable and worked harder on making sure Her plans actually worked, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Crawley said, knowing he had gone too far as soon as he’d said it. It was saying things like that that had led to his Fall.

“Well, now that that’s been established,” said Aziraphale even though nothing had been established at all, “I suspect we will have to leave to report back on the alliance to King Ahab,” not name dropping at all there, “we’re just about done and we can’t afford to be delayed.”

“Oh yess, we can’t have you being delayed, everything thesse people sstand to losse had better not inconvenience you,” Crawley retorted.

“I’m not saying that I don’t feel for-“ Aziraphale began to rise to the bait, but then remembered that he wasn’t supposed to rise to the taunts of demons, he was supposed to rise above them. “I had best be leaving. Goodbye Crawley.”

Crawley stayed frozen in what had been the place beside Aziraphale. He had whiplash from how quickly Aziraphale’s reaction had changed. From boiling rage to icy indifference all in a second. Crawley wasn’t sure which one was the real Aziraphale. But he knew which one he hoped it was.


	6. Green Waterfall

600BC Babylon

Empires, it seemed, were all the rage with humans these days. Gone were the times when all it took to be happy was to own your own land with the ability to grow enough to support your family. Admittedly, Aziraphale could understand why they did it. The culture that developed was certainly something to behold. And the cuisine! That was certainly something he could get behind.

This Neo-Babylonian Empire was a rather nice reminder of Akkadian and Sumerian culture, which he had presumed dead about six hundred years ago. They had brought back many of Aziraphale’s old favourites, including spiced dried dates, flatbread with spiced pork (he had missed pork), and barley beer which wasn’t necessarily better than hops beer, but it had such a nostalgic flavour to it.

Babylon, having been a capital city (and even the centre of a short-lived claim for independence from the Akkadian Empire in the 19th century BC), had not suffered the horrifying, salty death of the farms in Mashkan-shapir.

It helped, that Aziraphale had been sent here to do the absolute best kind of job Heaven had to offer: He was to pose as one of Her priests, and bestow blessings on the people of Babylon in the hopes that, once they had felt Her love, they would try pursue it further. All this, as well as some delicious plums that had been given to him by the grateful father of a no-longer-sick daughter, had put Aziraphale in a particularly good mood.

He bit through the waxy coating on the fruit and held back a laugh as the juices dribbled down his chin, there really was no way to eat stone fruit and remain dignified, the fruit was lucky it was delicious enough to be worth the sacrifice of his dignity.

Interrupting his musings, he felt a wave of strangely familiar energy ripple throughout the city, it felt . . . low, like it came from so far deep under the Earth that even the bravest miner wouldn’t go there. Clearly, it was demonic in origin. He expanded his senses outward, beyond his corporation, in search of the source and the inevitable burst of pain and misery that followed. Nothing. He could hazard a guess at the origin of it, but no more than that.

Ordinarily, if a demon were stupid enough to get so close that an angel could sense their presence, they’d be sure to make their demonic deeds quickly and to the point, but this one didn’t. This demon was playing the long game, however risky that may be. It all felt different that he had expected, they were supposed to make angels feel slightly sick and vice versa. They were not supposed to feel familiar. Ah. So that was what it was.

They had not parted on the best of terms. Not that it mattered, it was 272 years ago. And, frankly, angels were supposed to disagree with demons, that was possibly the most fundamental rule of them all. Aziraphale had options, he could leave, he could run into Crawley when he wasn’t expecting it, or . . .

He could do something about it now. He could march right over to the source and maintain some control of the situation. Wasn’t that what Gabriel had been going on about lately? Controlling the situation? That sounded about right. But he wouldn’t go until he’d cleaned himself up, showing up covered in plum juice simply wouldn’t do at all.

The source had been nearby enough to warrant walking, though it was a frustratingly inefficient means of getting anywhere. But as he approached, he saw a procession walking away, King Nebuchadnezzar II himself leading it, a smoky smell sticking to him, so he had just been tempted, and judging by the surge of power he’d felt, the king had fallen for it.

Smell is one of the first senses humans develop, it is the only sense not processed by the thalamus, and is considered to be inextricably linked with the development of early memories. Smell is also the closest way to describe the kind of sensing angels and demons do, its inherent and instinctual, but since angels were created before language was, they don’t really have the vocabulary to describe what they are actually doing. So for the purposes of making Aziraphale and Crawley’s actions understandable, the word smell will be used.

Aziraphale could smell that the source of the smoky scent was still inside the building, he looked around to find the entryway and -Oh! It was utterly stunning. Lush, verdant plants crawled down the walls, spilling over terraces like a green waterfall. A stone entrance, supported by two pillars that were slowly being wrapped by creeping vines, was just barely visible past the large fig leaves that resided proudly above it.

And if the outside had been beautiful, the interior was utterly splendid. Aziraphale was truly at a loss for words. He recognised, pistachio trees, date palms, the silver leaves of olive trees. Cypress and Myrtle trees grew side by side. It was uncannily like Eden.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, Aziraphale remembered why he was there. Crawley was getting closer, even with all the distractions, the smoky smell was still tangible.

Abandoning the last shreds of his dignity, Aziraphale hid himself beneath a tamarisk bush and listened.

“I still can’t believe he did all this for me,” came a breathless, but very human, voice.

“Well, he did,” said Crawley. From behind his bush, Aziraphale couldn’t tell if Crawley was presenting masculinely or femininely or some combination of both.

“Well, thank you for all your help as well,” said the woman who was speaking to Crawley.

“Really, your majesty, you don’t need to thank me,”

“But I must, you helped my husband build this all because I said I felt a little homesick! Thank you, Crawley.”

“You are most welcome, Queen Amytis.”

Aziraphale watched as Crawley bowed to the Queen as she left, as soon as her footsteps died down Crawley said, “Aziraphale, I know you’re in here.”

Aziraphale miraculously managed to exit the tamarisk bush without tripping and falling over. “Hello Crawley,” he said, searching for something else to say, “Nice gardens.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Crawley leant against a pillar that was covered in ivy, he was dressed in an unusual combination of a masculine robe, but a distinctly feminine tunic, if Aziraphale hadn’t heard Queen Amytis using he/him pronouns, he’d have no idea how to refer to him, “And pretty cheap all things considered.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, as if to say, ‘please elaborate’.

“The only cost good ol’ Nebuchadnezzar his soul.” Crawley looked up at a quince tree that was fruiting. Most of these plants would never grow together naturally, or grow at this speed at all, really. It’s some of my better work.”

Aziraphale was at a loss of what to say. On one hand, the gardens _were_ utterly spectacular and certainly praiseworthy, but on the other, the way they had come into being was through Hell and if Heaven ever found out he’d praised a demon’s handiwork . . .

He just hummed a sort of neutral sound, hoping that was enough of an answer to get by on. “Will you be here long?” Aziraphale asked, finding his voice.

“Not really, I’m supposed to be in Lydia next week, seeing if I can mess around with the value of their coins,” Crawley said idly.

“But they have the only stable currency in- I suppose that’s the point isn’t it?” Aziraphale responded.

“Yep,” Crawley popped the ‘p’, standing up from where he had been leaning, he made his way to the exit, “see you around,” he said.

“I-I should hope not!” Aziraphale called after him, and if he felt out of sorts it was because he was worried about what Crawley would do to the economy of the entire Near East, and not because he was lonely. Angels don’t get lonely, after all.


	7. Complication is Bullshit

323BC Corinth

“ . . . and then, y’know, you know what he did? He said I could have anything in the world, ‘nything I wanted and you know, you know what I said?”

“What?”

“You’re in my sun!”

Two very old men sat beside a wine barrel cackling with laughter. Of course, one of them was not, strictly speaking, a man, though he was dressed like one today, and the other was not, strictly speaking, old in the grand scheme of things, only 89, compared to his companion’s 3681 years since anyone had bothered to start counting them.

“You didn’t!” said the demon, Crawley, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“I did!” replied Diogenes of Sinope, still laughing as he handed Crawley a wineskin. But Crawley did not take a sip, his eyes were fixed on a figure in white across the agora. It had been 277 years since Crawley had last seen Aziraphale, and there he was. It was like She was trying to tempt him, to remind him of what he’d lost the opportunity to have by Falling.

Suddenly, everything seemed a lot less funny.

Diogenes followed his gaze and looked knowingly at Crawley. “Is that the one you’re drinking to forget?” Crawley just nodded in response, had he been more sober he would have stopped himself; these were the things he could never admit, not aloud, not even to himself.

“Tell him,” Diogenes said, “People feel things for a reason, you are allowed to love.”

Crawley almost laughed at that, but a bitter laugh. Demons weren’t supposed to love. And the word Diogenes had used, ‘pragma’ was the Greek word for the strongest, most longstanding love of all, the one that withstood anything and everything.

Diogenes is often credited for being the first cynic, but he was only cynical to a point: he didn’t believe in society, or nationalism, or wars. He believed that all humans needed were food, simple shelter, and drink. He very famously said ‘Humans have complicated every single gift from the gods’ and other than being wrong about the whole polytheism thing, he had a very good point.

“I can’t,” Crawley said, sobering up before he said anything else, “It’s . . . it’s complicated.”

“Bah!” Diogenes spat, “Complication is bullshit! It shouldn’t have to be difficult, so don’t let it be!”

Crawley was very relieved when a strange man walked up to Diogenes and asked him, “Sir, when you die, what should people do with your body?” Everyone knew the old cynic was dying.

“What should I care?” Diogenes replied to the man.

“So you won’t mind if we throw you over the city wall and leave you to the animals?” The man was clearly trying to get a rise out of him, being screamed at by Diogenes put you in the excellent company of Alexander the Great and Plato.

“Just as long as you give me a stick to beat the animals away with,” Diogenes said.

“But you’ll be dead, you won’t be able to use it,” the man insisted, clearly a novice at Diogenes’ logic.

“If I’m truly gone from this world then I won’t care, will I?” Diogenes laughed in the man’s face.

“I say,” said a voice in Crawley’s ear, “He’s rather blasé about dying, isn’t he?”

“Aziraphale,” Crawley said, now very glad he’d sobered up. “When did you get over here?”

“Oh, just now, I wanted to hear what he had to say before . . .”

“Me too,” said Crawley, “He’s good company.” He paused, realising how terrible it would be to have Diogenes trying to get them together, “But this’ll take a while,” he added apologetically.

“That’s alright, I heard his thoughts on funerals anyway,” Aziraphale laughed slightly. He looked so sweet when he laughed. Satan dammit, he’d thought he’d sobered up.

“Yeah,” Crawley responded eloquently, unable to stop the half-smile from appearing on his face.

Aziraphale filled to odd silence that followed, “Well, I’m glad to have met him, anyway.” He turned to his pita bread, which appeared to be covered in spit-roasted lamb and some kind of yoghurt sauce. “Goodbye Crawley.”

“Bye,” said Crawley, immediately realising how pathetic he sounded. Shit.


	8. Oily Josh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The next two chapters happen in and around the scenes already seen in the Episode ‘Hard Times’. I mention suicide as a temptation, which is one interpretation of Luke 4:9-13. It happens in the paragraph that starts with “He had been doomed to failure from the start” and ends with “inevitable”. Also, there is a very brief and censored mention of sex work going wrong, it starts with “Crawley could remember . . .” and ends with “healed her wounds.” Feel free to skip it if you need to. Stay safe <3 Also, fun fact: the alternative title for this chapter was ‘Jesus ain’t no snitch’

The figure in black joined the small group gathered to watch the crucifixion, her stola concealing her face. But even with her face shielded, the way she hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes trained on the young man, was unmistakeable. She was not alone in her grief, many around were openly weeping or holding one another as if that might spare them the horror they saw. But she was unique, in that she was a demon, come to mourn the Son of God.

“You couldn’t have given him more time?” she whispered, having long since given up the belief that God could actually hear her. Having lived for over 4000 years, 33 years was a blink, or, at best, a short moment. She watched him beg God to forgive the people literally hammering him to the cross. That was so utterly him.

Crowley, well Crawley then had been sent to tempt him. Probably as a punishment of some kind. He (he had been a he at the time) had been spending less and less time in Hell since his conversation with Diogenes. He had gone from trying to bury his feelings in the deepest pit of his mind to just trying to shut them up. But this order had come from Satan, King of Hell, himself, the order to tempt God’s own child and make him one of their own.

He had been doomed to failure from the start. Two demons had gone before him, trying to tempt him with food as he fasted, and another tried to goad him into committing suicide, saying that God would have to save him so She could kill him later, or he could get a head start on the inevitable.

Crawley had been sent as their last-ditch attempt, surely the original tempter, the Serpent of Eden, could do something. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t.

He’d expected silence from him, that the one they called Jesus or Yeshua would be disgusted by a demon, his ancestral enemy. But Jesus had offered him a seat beside him at his fireside. Crawley had had very few expectations of Jesus Christ, but he had expected his company to be like Heaven had been (and he assumes it still was like), all expectations of purity, and no asking questions.

The truth was so far from his expectations it was almost a joke. Jesus kept the company of lepers, sex workers, criminals, just about everyone Crawley had thought he would abhor. Of course, there was no crime, or sex work, and for some reason the leprosy never spread, some of the afflicted even managed to recover from it. But there was no judgement. Not from the man who was supposed to die for all of them. He should have hated them for being so sinful that he had to be sacrificed for them, but he wasn’t. He laughed and joked with them.

Crawley could remember when one woman, little more than a girl had come to their encampment, having just been attacked by her client. Jesus had not done what others would do - slammed the door in her face and called her words that didn’t bear repeating- he had invited other women she trusted into his room and had carefully healed her wounds.

After a week of staying with Jesus and his friends, Jesus had looked over at Crawley, the silent demonic observer and had said, “Don’t you think it is time, my friend?” He had known all along what Crowley had been sent to do. He had never wanted to tempt someone less.

Crawley had nodded and Jesus had taken him by the hand (He had touched a demon!) and they had walked together to a mountain’s peak. Crawley hated Her for taking this man away from his people, where his legacy could be passed around in mutating whispers and corrupted by the very authority Jesus himself so hated. But he couldn’t hate the man, even if he was a part of Her.

Crawley tried to make it as painless for them both as possible. He showed Jesus the wonders of the world, taking quite a bit of time to show him the now destroyed hanging gardens of Babylon. They had both laughed about how careless the Romans could be with cultures that weren’t theirs. He showed Jesus everything he had seen, every inch of the world from Eden to the present.

“Thank you for showing me this, my friend. But you already know my answer.” Jesus had said, his kind smile never wavering even as a demon tried (not very hard) to tempt him to Hell.

“I do,” Crawley had said, surprised by how much his throat ached. He wasn’t going to cry. Demons do not cry.

“I have seen the world through your eyes,” Jesus said, “I do not believe I have ever met a creature like you who feels as you do.”

Crawley tried to be afraid, to worry that Jesus had seen too much, but he couldn’t. It was like before the Fall, when he had been so certain of Her love that he hadn’t needed to question whether or not he was worthy of it.

“I would know your name,” Jesus said. Crawley knew he would have to disappoint him in this, people asked for your name so they could pray for you, he couldn’t have that.

“You wouldn’t wanna know,” Crawley said, trying to play it off as a joke, “it’s a crap name, I’m probably gonna change it.”

“Really, worse than ‘Oily Josh’?” (Due to a poor translations of Christ - meaning anointed one, and Jesus/Yeshua being the modern name Joshua, Oily Josh is a valid translation for Jesus Christ)

“It really is,” Crawley said. They had laughed together for a short time, and then, before Crawley could change his mind, he vanished.

Unbeknownst to Crawley, when Jesus had climbed down from the mountain a team of Angels had been there to meet him, Jesus had recognised one from the vision he had just seen.

“Good evening Aziraphale.”

* * *

From her place in the crowd she could see another figure, all in white wincing at each blow.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” she asked, wondering if she was going to talk to Heaven’s Aziraphale or hers.

“Smirk? Me?” Aziraphale sounded indignant, that could be a good sign.

“Well, your lot put him on there,” Crowley pointed out.

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley,” Aziraphale said.

Speaking of decisions, Crowley said, “Oh, I’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My name. Crawley just wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming at your feet-ish.” Crowley watched Aziraphale closely, looking for any sign that Aziraphale might have cared.

“Well you were a giant snake. So, what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?” Aziraphale asked, just a hint of sass in his tone.

Crowley almost choked on the air in her lungs. Yeah, Aziraphale, just invoke the Princes of Hell who rule over the domains of Darkness and Lust, that’ll make for a cheery afternoon. And the fact he’d even brought up the Lust demon, well, she was going to do her best not to look into that. Keeping her poker face, she said, “Crowley.”

Another blow struck Jesus’ palm. They both winced.

“Did you . . . ever meet him?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes. Seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” Crowley said, not ready or willing to say more.

“Why?” Aziraphale asked because of course the one thing Crowley really didn’t want to talk about would be the thing he couldn’t let go. Couldn’t he go back to invoking the names of Princes of Hell or something?

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee,” said Crowley, going for humour, “his travel opportunities are limited.”

She watched another blow and actually exclaimed in sympathy” Ah! That’s gotta hurt.” She wanted Aziraphale’s take on it all. “What’s he said that got everyone so upset?”

“Be kind to each other,” Aziraphale said mournfully.

“Yeah. That’ll do it,” Crowley responded.

They stood together as Jesus’ cross was raised. The centurions walked away blamelessly, Crowley could have snapped her fingers and ruined them, but Jesus would have hated that. They were still going to have very bad days tomorrow, of course, she was still a demon after all.

“Well, I suppose I should get going.” Aziraphale hadn’t spoken all night, not until the sun was already rising. “We have a lot to do over the next few days.”

“’Course,” Crowley said. She’d known the two of them, standing in silence was unsustainable, but it had been comfortable, more comfortable than it had any right to be, really.


	9. Romans can be so careless

41AD Rome

Somehow, in 4045 years of existence, or at least, existence as humans thought of it, Crowley had never managed to be as disgusted by one as he was on this day. He had walked into the taberna determined that nothing short of a miracle would keep him from being dragged out at closing time, blissfully intoxicated.

Rome was loud, that was his excuse. Huge, swarming cities, with millions of thoughts swirling around like it was nobody’s business. Picking out one feeling was like trying to find a specific grain of sand in the Sahara. He couldn’t pinpoint the scent of one angel, not unless he knew what he was looking for and the angel happened to be performing a major miracle right under his nose.

Or perhaps, on some deep unconscious level, he had been aware of the angel’s presence. But this would have been the same level he’d been squashing all his un-demonic feelings down to for millennia. Perhaps he had taken himself there on purpose, to cheer himself up. Probably not though, even his deep subconscious was still full of self-loathing.

He started on his amphora of ‘house brown’, whatever that boded.

“Crawley- Crowley? Well. Fancy running into you here.” And there was Aziraphale, with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, Aziraphale asked, “Still a demon then?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ – What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?” Even Crowley could admit that was a bit harsh. But the question had just been so stupid and he really didn’t want to have to deal with his emotions right now. Preferably he wouldn’t have to deal with them ever. He could push his affection for Aziraphale (he was not going to use the L word, no matter what Diogenes had said) right down along with his disgust at Caligula and they could all live in a weighted box at the bottom of the ocean in his mind, never to surface again.

Aziraphale looked rather put out, but he still raised his glass in proper greeting. “Salutaria,” he said, “In Rome long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?” Crowley replied, taking pity on him, he had a face like a sad puppy.

“Well I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.” Aziraphale’s entire face lit up, probably not just because Crowley had decided to actually join the conversation, but that might have been a part of it.

Crowley, definitely not enchanted, said, “I’ve never eaten an oyster,” as casually as he could manage

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, his eyes somehow getting even wider, “Oh well, let me tempt you to, - Oh no wait, that’s-that’s your job isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s words hung in the air while Crowley took a sip of his drink. Taking a sip of one’s drink in order to gauge what one’s correct response ought to be is a time-honoured tradition that Aziraphale actually invented, quite some years ago, though he was not aware that Crowley was doing it at this moment.

Had Aziraphale just made a joke? About demons of all things? If there was one thing Crowley could remember about Heaven in the last days before he had Fallen, it was that none of the angels had anything resembling a sense of humour. Gone were the days of playing pranks with dinosaurs and stratigraphy and whatnot. It had been all about rules. And ‘no asking questions’ had been near the top of the list.

Hell wasn’t much better, at least, not when Hastur was around. Just about everyone was far too busy being bitter and angry to be any real fun.

But Earth, Earth was fun. As soon as any cultural group invented language, jokes were next on the list. And it seemed Aziraphale had been around long enough to pick some of it up. He gave Aziraphale a half-smile and a huff of a laugh. Aziraphale looked rather relieved at the response he got.

“Where is Petronius’ restaurant?” Crowley asked.

“It’s not far at all,” Aziraphale said, and whatever Crowley believed in, God, Satan, Whoever, seemed to look down on him and smiled as Aziraphale said the next words. “Come on.”

The Romans may have been famous for their roads, but it was the general consensus of those who lived within her walls, that the streets and alleyways left a lot to be desired. About every few metres it was easy to notice someone who’s wagon had slipped into a gap between the cobbles and refused to move, or a person struggling with where their sandal had gotten caught on a rough edge. But people seldom noticed when they had no trouble walking through the streets. This effect, of people noticing bad events more than the good, would be the subject of a paper by Roy Baumeister in 2001. And it was this effect that meant nobody noticed the two men – or rather, man-shaped beings – who made their way through Rome without experiencing any of the ill-effects the poorly made streets had to offer.

Petronius was very proud of his restaurant or ‘popina’. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall style place, mostly because few other types of restaurants existed. He bragged the best oysters in Rome, fresh from the Campanian coast, farmed by his brother and brought in before the sun had fully risen.

If Petronius thought the two patrons who appeared at his restaurant were odd, he said nothing and brought them his most expensive platter (after all, they were very clearly of the patrician class). They were speaking in a language he couldn’t understand, it sounded a little like one of the languages the slaves used, but the men couldn’t possibly be slaves. Fortunately, his attention was soon diverted by a new customer.

“So, your temptation, was it anyone special?” Aziraphale asked, switching to Hebrew as it would not do to be overheard.

“Emperor Caligula. Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting to be appalling. Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success. You?” Crowley said, not wanting to think too hard about his morning.

“They want me to influence a boy called Nero. I thought I’d get him interested in music. Improve him.” Aziraphale said, between oysters.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Crowley offered, examining the oyster with suspicion, “Are you sure we’re supposed to eat it like that?”

“Positive,” Aziraphale said firmly, “I do worry about these Romans, they aren’t doing particularly, well, well . . .”

Crowley downed the oyster; it wasn’t as bad as he was expecting. In fact, it was rather good. But the texture took some getting used to. Still he didn’t eat much, and he’d heard some interesting things about them, he ate another and turned back to Aziraphale.

“Serves them right, really, after the hanging gardens and . . . “ Crowley trailed off, not sure he wanted to remind Aziraphale of their last meeting. “The gardens, anyway,’ he deflected. “They cost a perfectly good man his soul and they just had to burn them down.”  


“And they were so careless with that library!” Aziraphale agreed, “I spent quite some time in Alexandria tending to it, Ptolemy II was a great lover of knowledge. And all it took was one incident with Julius Caesar and poof!” Aziraphale gestured, “Half the library up in smoke. And now,” he said, “and now that they’ve taken over, they aren’t even funding the rebuilding or repairs.” Aziraphale ate his final oyster rather sadly.

Crowley felt slightly guilty, he had reported what had happened at the library of Alexandria as one of his temptations. Whatever it was – and he was not going to dig too deep into it – he didn’t want Aziraphale to be upset with him.

“Look, erm,” Crowley said, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry, “whatever you hear . . .” He trailed off, there was no good way to say this, was there? ‘I took credit for the library thing,” he said, “but I didn’t actually do it, I was in the lighthouse the whole time, messing with some sailors,” he added very quickly.

Aziraphale made a face. It was the sort of face that meant a lot of things were happening in Aziraphale’s head at once. He was full of questions: Why would Crowley tell him this? Being the biggest one.

On the other side of the table, Crowley was feeling rather mortified. Imagine if Hell heard he’d lied. Worse, imagine if Hell heard he’d come clean because he was sweet on an angel. He had to leave.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, rather quickly, “must be off, might run into you again and all that. Bye.” And he was gone, vanishing into thin air. Leaving Aziraphale both very confused, and with the bill.


	10. Minutes to destroy

79 AD Herculaneum

Aziraphale had felt their fear before he had seen its source. The clouds of pumice and ash had blown southeast over Pompeii and Oplontis. He had felt their souls leave the Earth and ascend (only a few) or descend (most of them). There had been a certainty, little more than a hope really, that it was over. But as the people of Herculaneum looked up, hoping to see the clear blue skies that had blessed them only hours before, they saw it.

It’s name is pyroclastic flow or lava, and it raced down the mountainside towards them. There was no escape, not for the people. But for Aziraphale, there was. He unfurled his wings and flew up into the clouds of smoke, the only people who could have borne witness to such a feat, boiled alive before the lava had even touched their skin.

It was true that it had taken more than a day to build Rome, but it had only taken a matter of minutes to destroy Herculaneum.

Hidden in the ash, Aziraphale flew over the Bay of Naples. He could hear the cries of people mourning their loved ones, mourning their homes, mourning that such a terrible thing could happen, and his heart broke for them.

Aziraphale knew his heart was weak, compared to the other angels. He was not stony-faced with only impersonal compassion. He always _felt_ so deeply for humanity. His heart was a ball of butter, always melting for something of another. He didn’t understand how the other angels could be made of love, as he was, and be so cold.

Tears welled in his eyes as he heard their prayers, only a small percentage of them were Christians (as they had taken to calling themselves), but their prayers reached him, and he felt the tears spill over his cheeks. He cried, silently and softly, not as a show, not because he was supposed to be blending in with humans, but because of the deep sympathy he felt for their plight, for their suffering.

He wanted to change it, to undo it, be he knew he couldn’t, Vesuvius had burned itself into Rome’s history and it could never be undone. Was this how Craw-no Crowley had felt at Thera? No wonder she had been so upset. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to hear the spiels of angels quoting borrowed wisdom. This was real. And it hurt.

As if Aziraphale’s thoughts had summoned him, Aziraphale caught a whiff of the smoky scent he now knew was Crowley.

“Aziraphale? I know you’re in here somewhere.” Crowley called, the ash cloud obscuring both of their vision.

Aziraphale tried to get a hold of himself, it simply would not do for the enemy to see him cry. But Crowley was there, and real, and maybe he understood.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice level and failing miserably. The smoky smell (which was somehow very distinct from the smell of the ash and lava) became stronger for a moment as the ash moved, encasing the two of them in a sort of ash bubble.

Crowley saw Aziraphale, his white toga ruined by the ashes. He had clearly been crying. Ordinarily, in Crowley’s line of work, crying meant an opportunity, a chance to tempt someone to a new low, but not this. Not Aziraphale. He had seen people hug or embrace each other for comfort, but that didn’t sound right either, it would probably earn him a one-way ticket to smite-town anyway. So he fell back on what he always fell back on, humour and bravado.

“Really Aziraphale, we have got to stop meeting like this.”

Aziraphale gave a watery laugh. “We really do,” he agreed.

“How did you even know I was here?” Aziraphale asked, when he’d recovered a bit more.

“I saw the whole thing,” Crowley replied, “I was across the bay in Baiae.”

“Ah.” Was all Aziraphale could think to say.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, immediately regretting his decision to say this, “you can’t stay up here forever. Come to Baiae, I owe you a meal anyway.” Which of course meant, ‘please don’t be sad, I lo- care about you so much, more than I should, please come back with me’, not that Crowley would ever dare say it.

And Aziraphale went with him not saying anything, which , of course, meant, ‘I don’t know how to feel about anything right now and I will use how distressed I am as an excuse to follow you, even though, if we were both being honest, I would probably go anyway.’

They ended up in a rather gaudy taberna in Baiae. Crowley had taken quite a bit of time to think where they should go, and this taberna had been chosen not because the food was excellent (even though it was), but because it was the taberna least likely to have an orgy break out. Baiae was complex like that.

“I’ve heard some interesting things about this place, you know,” Aziraphale said, one ‘fructi mari’ dish later. The wonderful food improving his mood dramatically.

“Taberna Hadriana, or Baiae?” Crowley asked, drinking some particularly good white wine faster than it ought to be drank.

“Baiae,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve heard, well,” he leaned in to whisper, “I’ve heard it’s rather salacious.”

Crowley burst out laughing, the kind that would leave a being that needed to breathe utterly breathless. “Sorry,” he said, “Yeah,” he took a break to laugh again, “yeah, it is. I just took you to a taberna that wasn’t well,” Crowley paused, “I figured you’d had enough stuff to deal with today, you didn’t need a bacchanalia as well.” Not that the idea wasn’t appealing to Crowley, even if it was just to see the appalled look on the angel’s face. Some of those bacchanalias were earth-moving if he did say so himself. And he did, even if he didn’t participate all that often and took great care to get the Hell away when they started the cannibalism.

“That’s true,” Aziraphale said, his eyes getting something of a faraway look as he thought about Pompeii and Herculaneum. It was easier, here, surrounded by life, to remember that there was still good in the world, and that he fought for a reason. Even if the very thing he was supposed to be fighting was sitting opposite him at the table. He sighed.

“Who did you remember?” Crowley asked, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face over his glasses. Aziraphale wanted to ask how he’d known. But that wasn’t fair to ask, he could remember the haunted look on Crowley’s face at Thera.

“Pliny the Elder,” Aziraphale said sadly, “I’d planned to get a copy of his _Natural History_, I hear it’s a fantastic read.”

“You should get it now, before news of his death reaches Rome,” Crowley said sagely, “as soon as the vendors hear he’s carked it, they’ll be hiking their prices up, no question.”

“I suppose I should heed your advice,” Aziraphale’s mind was having a hard time grasping the idea of taking advice from a demon. But it was good advice, regardless of its source.

“Well then,” Crowley said, standing. Although, standing is a rather generous word for what he did, it was more like he moved his limbs like cooked spaghetti and somehow ended up vertical. “This one’s on me. Get to Rome before they sell out.”

“Erm, yes,” Aziraphale was about to say, ‘thank you’, but that wasn’t right, was it? He could almost hear Gabriel’s voice berating him for doing such a thing. He wondered if Crowley thought the same thing as he sauntered over to the bar.


	11. Angry Hissing Sound

179 AD, Ostia, the port of Rome

The house backed onto the banks of Tiber, ordinarily people would have been bustling in and out of the square of the Guilds and onto the riverbank to trade. Even on the busiest holiday, there was noise: the sounds of leather sandals against cobblestone, the sounds of a boat brushing the banks, the constant stream of chatter of people at the water fountain. Not anymore. The Tiber’s flow seemed louder, as if it were calling it’s people back. The river received no answer except the odd low moan. There were rows of houses here, each once filled with life, but now silent. The only marker that indicated that this house was any different to it’s neighbours was a small ‘X’ marked over the door.

The Necropolis, on the Southern border was busy, but not in an energetic way, most of its occupants were not of the energetic or even living variety. Most of its workers and the people who had once tended to it had long since joined the growing pile of bodies to be buried.

In the house with an ‘X’, people still moved, but it was with great caution. People still spoke, but it was hushed whispers. The air stank of decay and there was no escape, those who treated the sick all held the same secret question to their chest: Who will care for me when I succumb?

A solitary figure sat by the impluvium, not even moving to breathe. His white toga, fair skin, and white hair made him look like a statue, and perhaps he could have been, if it weren’t for the mournful expression on his face. No one would have such a miserable statue on display.

Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate, stood with purpose, his legs shaking slightly. He could not heal anymore people, not by miracle. But he could fetch them clean water and he could be there when they pass. And maybe, just maybe, She would be merciful and allow these people more time on Earth.

The water fountain was only as far away as the end of the block. Aziraphale could see one woman collecting water from it, she paid him no heed. She dropped her amphora and ran away, terrified of something she saw, but she didn’t scream, she hadn’t the energy.

Aziraphale peered around at where she had stood. The water fountain pictured the head of a gorgon, supposedly to protect the water from evil spirits. She was certainly terrifying, grotesque even. But once Aziraphale had gotten used to looking at her, he saw one of her hairs move. A black snake, basking on the stone. He eyed it suspiciously and reached out his senses. Yes, that was definitely the smoky scent he knew. Craw- wait no, Crowley.

“I know it’s you, Crowley,” he said to the snake.

In a smooth motion, the snake became man-shaped. Crowley, in his black toga and unusual eyewear, sprawled over the stone carving, limbs everywhere.

“You look tired,” Crowley said, giving Aziraphale a once over.

“We have no need to sleep,” Aziraphale said, filling his bucket with water.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try it,” Crowley responded, “after all, we don’t need to eat either.”

Aziraphale moved away from the fountain, lifting the now-full bucket with ease.

“I’m afraid I don’t really have time for this,” Aziraphale said, walking back towards the house with the ‘X’.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged healing people,” Crowley said, changing track, “you can’t heal all of them.”

“I can try.” Aziraphale replied

Crowley said nothing but his eyes were fixed on Aziraphale as he followed him to the house. Crowley pointed to the ‘X’.

“Is that how you know they’re . . .?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, “they use this house as a sort of meeting place, like the Tabernacle.”

Crowley nodded and planted his feet, watching Aziraphale walk inside. Not that Aziraphale was upset by this, only curious. “You can’t come in?”

“It’s Her land.” Crowley’s eyes no longer meeting Aziraphale’s. “I’m not allowed.”

A pockmarked hand reached out for Aziraphale in that moment, distracting him from the odd expression on Crowley’s face.

When Aziraphale looked up again, Crowley was nowhere to be seen and the Archangel Gabriel stood before him.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said in his over-loud voice.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale replied in the appropriate, soft voice, as befitted a house full of the dying.

“Aziraphale, look, you’re done here. This. It’s part of Her plan. So, it’s time to move on already. We need you in Edessa, yesterday.”

Aziraphale tried to say something but Gabriel shushed him.

“It’s not like any of this is actually working,” Gabriel exhaled, “So come on, let’s go already.”

“O-of course, I’ll be right with you.” Aziraphale looked down and tried to swallow his feelings.

He watched Gabriel walk out of the building and he could have sworn he’d heard an angry hissing sound following Gabriel’s retreating figure.

Crowley slithered his way to the house next door. For doing evil things, definitely had nothing to do with the fact that Aziraphale was so close by. He was just, um . . . Healing the Romans next door! Yep, that was it. After all, if healing the Christians was Gods will, then healing those who worshipped the Roman pantheon would balance it all out. That thought made Crowley stop for a moment. He was cancelling out Aziraphale’s work. Ignoring the twinge of guilt he felt about it, he realised that that concept could prove to be very useful indeed.


End file.
